The four-hundred inmate capacity lockup was a county facility but the ADC housed federal prisoners awaiting trial in the Eastern District of Virginia under a contract with the U.S. Marshals Service. The ADC had hosted some interesting inmates. The FBI spy Robert Hanssen and CIA turncoat Rick Ames were held there for a while. A few Al-Qaeda types had landed there — Zacarias Moussaoui, the American John Walker Lindh and others accused of being part of the Osama bin Laden network were guests in the famous jail for a time. The detention center’s upscale architecture and the manicured gardens that graced the grounds did little to offset the chilling effect of the razor wire, concrete barriers and shotgun-toting deputies at the guard station.
Warfield parked under an oak and spent a few minutes reading the FBI file before going inside. A deputy keyed-in the information Warfield gave him. “I’ll get the lieutenant. Hold one.”
Warfield puttered around the vintage motorcycles in the lobby and looked at the black-and-white photographs of a simpler police department of half a century earlier. Before he left Cross, the president had called Paula and instructed her to make the necessary arrangements. The jail would require approval from someone in the justice department, and even though the request came from Cross the filtration down to jail level would take some time. Justice wasn’t going to turn its catch over to an outsider without some ado— especially not if the request went to a United States attorney who recognized Warfield’s name.
Warfield was checking his watch again as a young officer came into the lobby rolling his eyes. He apologized for the delay.
“Cameron Warfield, right? I’m Aubrey Holden, a lieutenant in the Security Division here. Been on the phone with that bunch for most of an hour. First there was clearance and then they called back and said no deal. Now it’s on again. Photo I.D. Let’s get you in before there’s another change.”
Warfield signed a form that listed twenty-seven visitor regulations. Holden told him he was on Joplan’s approved list and there would be no delay next time.
Warfield thought about the man he was about to see. The limited methods and procedures the FBI could get away with were not going to do the trick with someone stonewalling, as Joplan was doing. The FBI knew Joplan was dirty but he and his lawyer knew the FBI hadn’t yet accumulated enough hard evidence to hold him. The prospect of his being freed seven days hence worked on Warfield.
Three armed deputies stood near the door to the private interview room Warfield had requested, and the security camera above the door recorded anyone entering or leaving. When Warfield started in, Lieutenant Holden stopped him. “Sir, if you don’t mind a personal comment — it’s about my brother. He went through Lone Elm few years back. Tom Holden. Navy sent him there after he completed SEAL training. He has great respect for you and Lone Elm.”
Warfield nodded, but he didn’t remember every student that passed through Lone Elm. “Still in the Navy?”
“FBI now. He’ll want to know I met you.”
Warfield nodded. “Give him my regards.”
The orange jumpsuit didn’t hide Joplan’s muscular build but heavy lines in his forehead aged him beyond his years. A sharp, slightly bent nose gave him a severe appearance. He sat with his right arm draped over the chair back and cocked his head to the side as he sized up Warfield.
Both men were silent as Warfield took in Joplan for a moment. Here was a man whose sworn duty it had been to recruit foreign sources of intelligence to benefit the United States. Now he had turned. His motivation was contained somewhere in the acronym MICE: Money, ideology, compromise and ego. For Americans who crossed over, it was not often ideology; few believed there was a better system than America’s, even with all its flaws. Rick Ames did it for money. Robert Hanssen was an enigma: He was driven by childhood fantasy, ego, and money combined. Others put themselves in a position to be blackmailed: A well- placed U.S. government official with damning personal secrets or indiscretions to hide — even one who may have never had a disloyal thought — was easy prey for enemy intelligence. But the most common reason for betrayal was money.
“Well, well, it’s you they’ve sent now,” said Joplan.
“So we’ve met before.”
“Lone Elm. Few years back. I actually thought you were okay.”
“Should’ve paid attention in class.”
Joplan almost smiled.
“Treating you okay?” Warfield asked. He realized the hollowness of his question and regretted asking it. This wasn’t a social call and Joplan knew it.
“Don’t condescend to me, Warfield.”
Warfield looked straight at him. “Why’d you do it, Joplan?”
Joplan got up and walked to the back of the small room. “FBI had their little play-cops following me for months. The Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity boys! Got nothing my lawyer can’t explain away. Neither will you. So, do I look stupid enough to hand you a noose to hang me with?”
Warfield walked over to the narrow vertical slit in the concrete wall that served as a window to the outside. It was too narrow for even the smallest prisoner to use for escape. A hundred yards away, drivers zipped along the Capital Beltway with free will most took for granted. Standing on the inside looking out brought to mind the preciousness of freedom to come and go wherever one pleases.
“They’ll track you and track you and one day they’ll have enough. You’ll need a nursing home, Joplan, if you ever get out of prison.”
Joplan sneered. “But you’re gonna help now, right? You got some kind of special deal for me if I bare my soul to you. Well, hold your breath, Warfield. I’m out of here in a week.”
If there’d been any thoughts in Warfield’s mind that Joplan might not be the man the FBI thought he was, they were gone now. Joplan had not even tried to profess innocence.
Warfield thought about his days in the field as he drove away from the jail. Training people for this kind of work was fine but there was a layer of fluff between training others, and being out there in the world where theory became nerves and will, skills and some measure of smarts. It changed you forever. Carry out a clandestine operation that redirects the course of history and you never go back to any normal existence. The withdrawal symptoms don’t go away. Remission, maybe, but the only fix is to go back.
Warfield called Paula Newnan and said he needed a plane to pick him up at Lone Elm at nine o’clock sharp that night. Las Vegas, round trip.
When he got to Lone Elm, he walked over to Macc Macclenny’s desk where he was typing into a computer. “How busy are you?”
Macc was the operations manager at Lone Elm and a man who had Warfield’s respect and confidence. He pushed his Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap to the back of his head. “Oh, not at all. Just doing the daily log on fifty trainees, filing an accident report, ordering two cars with armor plate, planning tomorrow’s activities, reading resumes for a mechanic I’m trying to hire, ordering fourteen kinds of ammo…meaningless odds and ends like that. Then I’m gonna eat my lunch. It’ll be about sundown by then. I sure hope you had a nice day at the White House.”
Warfield ignored the sarcasm. “Just came from ADC.”
“The jail? President lock you up, or what?”
“Offered me a job. Better get used to doing without me out here.”
Macc shook his head. “Yeah, like you’re leaving Lone Elm.”
“In and out. We’ll talk about that later. Right now, there’s something else.”